


Lazy Day

by amorremanet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Chubby Castiel, Community: chubwinchesters, Community: cottoncandy_bingo, Community: kink_bingo, Dom/sub, Domestic, Fat Castiel, Fat Character, Feeding, Feedism, Ficlet, Fluff, Kink Without Plot, M/M, Master/Slave, Schmoop, Situational Humiliation, Slice of Life, Sub Castiel, chubby!kink, fat appreciation, feederism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-05
Updated: 2012-10-05
Packaged: 2017-11-15 16:45:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>No one over at the office would guess that trim, fit, perpetually dieting Dean Winchester would have a fat boyfriend. None of his coworkers would guess that he'd have not just a submissive, but a slave—much less one who tipped the scales at four-hundred and thirty pounds the last time that they weighed him in—but c'est la vie.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lazy Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [adirtysock](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=adirtysock).



> Prompts used here are: "lazy day" for cottoncandy_bingo; the postage stamp of, "exposure/exhibitionism," "painplay (other)," "humiliation (situational)," and, "subspace/headspace" for kink_bingo; and [this prompt](http://chubwinchesters.livejournal.com/123961.html?thread=1893433#t1893433) from the ~chubwinchesters drabble-a-thon.

First thing in the morning, Cas rouses to the smell of breakfast and thunders around the corner to the kitchen. Dean hasn't left for work yet—instead, he's gotten up early and whipped up an impressive stack of chocolate chip pancakes. Twenty of them, to be exact, every single one of them enormous, and on his way out the door, he kisses Cas's forehead and instructs him to get through a whole stick of butter, at least half the bottle of Vermont maple syrup, and one of the pints of Häagen-Dazs out of the freezer.

As the door slams behind Dean, Cas smiles, reaches down to massage his belly. No one over at the office would guess that trim, fit, perpetually dieting Dean Winchester would have a fat boyfriend. None of his coworkers would guess that he'd have not just a submissive, but a slave—much less one who tipped the scales at four-hundred and thirty pounds the last time that they weighed him in—but c'est la vie. Cas runs his fingers over the black leather cord hanging around his neck.

It's a simple trinket, with a little silver crucifix hanging off it, but it's taken the place of a collar ever since Cas's neck got too big for all the good ones, and spinning the cord between his pudgy fingers makes Cas's heart feel light in his chest. Another thing has the same effect, namely: the knowledge that tonight's a weigh-in night—the first one that Dean's had time for in months.

Smiling the whole time, Cas puts away all of his pancakes, smothering them in two sticks of butter, the whole bottle of syrup, and two pints of ice cream because he can't make up his mind on whether he wants the mint chocolate chunk from Ben and Jerry's or the chocolate chip cookie dough from Häagen-Dazs. On top of all that, he downs two huge glasses of whole milk and all the leftover chicken fried rice from last night—because too much sweetness sours even the best of his after-breakfast naps and he needs something salty to balance everything out on his palate, settle his full stomach. Flopping out back into bed, rubbing rhythmic circles all around his slightly stuffed belly, Cas dozes off and lets the time slip away from him.

After sleeping off his breakfast, Cas is free to snack as he pleases—and he pleases very, very much. They keep boxes of treats scattered throughout the apartment, so that Cas never needs to exert himself too much to get a chocolate bar or a bag of chips. As he works on his latest assignment from Bela—ghostwriting a novel for some paranormal romance hack whose work makes _Twilight_ look like Shakespeare—Cas plows through three king-size packages of Reese's peanut butter cups, two bags of cheddar-flavored Sun Chips, a huge bag of peanut butter M &M's, and a container of cream cheese frosting—all without leaving the comfort of his and Dean's enormous sofa, all without moving beyond his keystrokes on the laptop and making sure that he gets himself fed.

Problems come with lunchtime, and they come because Cas mostly doesn't bother with clothes anymore. He doesn't leave the house (since he works from home), he and Dean rarely have company over (since Dean's brother, Sam, lives out in California with his fiancee, Jessica, and Cas's sister, Anna, prefers to make Cas get out in the world to come see her), and Dean wants to see Cas's body as much as he possibly can, from pudgy, multiple chins down to his massive thighs and cankles, the deposits of fat coccooning his knees.

And clothes are doubly ridiculous because Cas loves for Dean to see him in all of his flabby glory, all of his immensity. He loves stretching out on the sofa and showing off his rolls upon rolls of rippling flesh, the cellulite pockmarking up the insides of his thighs, all so Dean can appreciate the view, the sight of the work they've done together.

Unfortunately for Cas, the meal-plan Dean's pinned to the fridge says that dinner's going to be a surprise and calls for Cas to do as much as he can with three extra-large Chicago deep-dish pizzas (with three toppings each, though Cas is allowed to pick which ones), and he specifically says that Cas needs to order them in from Buddy's, their favorite place. Which means that Cas needs to get dressed or face the delivery guy naked—and God help him, nothing that he finds fits him anymore. Even his large, plush bathrobe doesn't cover him entirely, and in the end, Cas has to settle with a pair of sweats that fit him loosely just a month or two ago.

Even without anyone else around to watch him heft himself around and fumble through this, Cas blushes, feels a hot, sick rush of shame worming up the back of his neck. All of that, and just from trying to wriggle into his too-small t-shirts and his elastic waistband pants that still can't completely hold him. It's damn intoxicating, the effect that Cas's size has on him.

He ends up ordering one Hawaiian pizza, one Buddy's Special (sausage, pepperoni, diced red peppers, onions, and extra cheese), and one custom order with all of Cas's favorites (extra cheese, extra pepperoni, extra mushrooms, white-meat chicken, pineapple, diced red peppers, and diced tomatoes), and he ends up answering the door in just his straining sweats, without a shirt. More importantly, his insides squirm when the pizza man arches an eyebrow at him, snorts, and asks if Cas is having a party or something. Cheeks flushing pink again, Cas shakes his head and pats the fullest part of his round, sagging belly, and says that nope, everything's all for him.

His stomach twists around and ties itself in knots, writhing in shame and delight as he tries to think about what the delivery guy's thinking, how he's got to be marveling at Cas's size, at the flabby expanse of his gut (which droops and bulges over where his sweatpants rest), the wide, feminine curves of his hips, the massive jelly-rolls hanging over his waistband… Everything about Cas says that three extra-large pizzas are the last things that he needs.

And when he sits down to his spread—boxes resting on the coffee table and two-liter bottle of Coke in hand, because he'll probably need the digestive aid—that thought only eggs him on, makes him wolf down his topping-coated slices as fast as he possibly can, tricking his stomach into letting him eat more and more, no matter how much he's already had today and no matter how much he might need to eat for Dean later tonight.

Eight slices into his forty-eight, Cas starts alternating between bites of pizza and sips of Coke. Around the thirteenth slice, his stomach starts complaining. Some four slices later, the pain's worse—not the good, nice pain of being full, but the sharp pangs of knowing that he's pushing his limits and that he could burp all he wants and still not really ease the building pressure pushing out against his stomach. But Dean said to do his best, and there's no way that Cas can settle for anything less than finishing half the pizza set out before him.

After slice number twenty-five, Cas polishes off the two-liter and kicks back on the sofa, nods off for another nap as he kneads at all of the taut spots along his belly. No matter how much it hurts, though, Cas crams more pizza into himself after his nap, and by the time Dean gets home, there are only three slices left. Pain doesn't matter. Pain's not important. What's important is that Cas got an order from Dean, and he has to do what Dean says.

Cas worries over Dean's reaction, but it's pointless: instead of getting tetchy, instead of asking why Cas didn't finish all of it, Dean trails his fingers down Cas's chubby cheek, combs them through his hair, and whispers that Cas did such a good job feeding himself today. _No, really, Baby—I mean it. You did so great… Hey, remember how many pieces you had leftover the last time you did this, right? You had, like, ten left that time, so only having three left's some pretty fucking awesome progress, if you ask me… Now what do you say we get you all weighed in, huh?_

Nodding, Cas smiles up at Dean, rocks forward and still needs Dean's help in yanking him up off the sofa—he can manage it well enough, normally, but not when he's got a full belly pinning him back into the cushions. As he waddles down the hall to the bathroom, feeling Dean's hand pressing gently into the small of his back, Cas is just thankful that their corridors are wide enough for him and Dean to walk side-by-side. Loosening his tie, Dean sits down on the toilet and cocks his head toward the scale. He's in the best position for reading the thing's digital display, which they need, since Cas hasn't been able to read it on his own since he weighed in around two-ninety.

Cas heaves a deep breath, and then a sigh. Closing his eyes, he steps up on the scale, and after a moment that scratches along his nerves with all kinds of worries—how big has he gotten, what if he isn't getting big enough, has he maybe even hit a plateau and just imagined that none of the clothes he owns can cover him—Dean announces, _Four-seventy-five, Gorgeous. Scale says you're up to four. seven. tea. **five**. Which, as of last night, means your fat ass has a whole three hundred pounds on me, so… Good fucking work, Sexy…_

He sighs, brushing the backs of his fingers down Cas's side, grabbing at a roll of flab along Cas's side and jostling it. Cas's whole belly jiggles from the motion, and so do his breasts, and the ripples just get worse when Dean backhand smacks his stomach's underside. And Cas gasps, whines, is about to beg Dean for more of that, yes, please, do give him more of that, when Dean smirks up at Cas and asks how he feels about having milkshakes for dinner.

Because, apparently, Dean's got everything they need to mix up a good few gallons of milkshake—and they haven't broken out their tube-and-funnel in such a long time, if Cas asks for Dean's opinion.


End file.
